For the Dead and the Living, We Must Bear Witness
by Marquesa de Santos
Summary: Belle LeFay had never dreamed she would become involved in this new war, besides the occasional air raid. However, when Mr. Gold, a Jewish refugee from Germany, is sheltered by Uncle and Aunt Charmont, things become so much more complicated. AU, Rumbelle, smut, sadness. This is what majoring in World War II has done to me. The title is taken from a quote by Elie Wiesel.
1. Chapter 1

For the Dead and the Living, We Must Bear Witness

Chapter One

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She felt complete with him. Yes, he had been an absolutely unpleasant man when she'd first met him, but Mr. Gold had a habit of growing on people. Or maybe just her. He'd certainly grown on Belle, and that afternoon, he had proposed that she become Mrs. Aaron Uriah Gold. She had never seen him quite so vulnerable, and now, hours later, she was contentedly lacing her fingers with his. He was lying beside her on the rug, his other hand curling in her hair. She was home. Papa hadn't been happy when she'd told him, but right here, with the firelight turning their skin golden orange, she couldn't care less. She was _home_, and she was loved, and Aaron was caressing her hair like she was his greatest treasure. She felt sometimes as though she hadn't been anybody until he loved her. It was a ridiculous sentiment, for she was strong-willed and impertinent and very much her own person. But when Aaron kissed her… when her Mr. Gold made love to her, she became more than herself.

She moved over him, catching his lips between hers. "I love you," she breathed, and the smile on his face, the one that was surprised and pleased and all hers made her feel warm. She grew warmer still when he told her "I love you, too Belle" with brokenness and honesty. He'd told her once that she had made him somebody who was worth a damn. She hadn't told him, but she often felt the same, especially with his heartbeat underneath hers. God, she loved him. She loved him so much it made her heart hurt, and she didn't care what everyone said. He was all hers, and he wanted her, and he was her silver lining in this whole raincloud of fear.

She supposed there was something a little bit illicit about sleeping with the man her Uncle Charmont was sheltering, but she didn't care. This whole stupid world had turned on its axis, and Hitler couldn't have him. Wouldn't! She didn't realize she was crying until he leaned forward, pushing her up with him. "Belle, what's wrong?" She was straddling his hip, and he was brushing the tears from her face.

"This stupid war. It isn't right, Aaron. This isn't right. You don't even practice Judaism, but so what if you did? This is stupid. This isn't right. We're all just people. I hate nationalism. I'm so sick of nationalism." Her face was cupped in his large hands, their noses touching. "Aaron, this isn't fair."

His face became drawn. His son, Benjamin, was still unaccounted for, and he didn't even know if Ben was still alive or rotting away in one of the detainment camps. "I know, Schatzi." His voice hoarse with unshed tears, Belle regretted bringing it up. She couldn't help it, though; her outrage would come upon her at the most inopportune moments.

She clutched at her necklace and felt her torso collapse against him, enjoying the way the fire made shadows dance against the ring with which he'd proposed earlier. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I won't talk about it, anymore." She kissed his neck once and held him, her arms wrapping around his back and molding her to him. One of her hands was carding through his hair, trying to offer comfort in the small caress. When his warm mouth came to tease at her ear, all tongue and teeth, she sighed, her hands tugging on the hair with which she'd tried to be so gentle.

"I love you." He murmured before moving down the column of her neck whispering his secrets into her skin while she moved restlessly over his lap. "Aaron, " she managed before moving her hands to his face and bringing it towards hers for a proper kiss. The feel of his lips against hers was seared into her memory. She would never be able to get enough of it, though. Neither could she get enough of his desire for her, the evidence thereof making itself known underneath her.

He had a tendency to make love in the strangest of places, though they were always obscure and never in a way so as to compromise her (even though he had been compromising her for months. She didn't regret one second of it). However, the intensity of his focus this night startled her. His fingers were tracing patterns on her lower back, having burrowed underneath her sweater. His other hand had wandered to brush underneath her breast.

She pushed away and fumbled with her garments. Sometimes, they would make love with most everything on, but today, after what had happened, what had been promised, she wanted to see all of him, feel all of him. They helped each other out of their clothes, moving as little as possible. The gentle brushing of cold fingers against skin was delicious, and her core was pulsing, just as surely as she could see his erection throbbing. He laid back, his hands guiding her hips over his, and she sank on him, taking him into her with a hiss of relief. She made a slight whimpering sound as she moved her hips, her eyes squeezed shut, and she rocked. When his knees came up to give her back a place to rest and change the angle at which he rocked within her she made a high pitched sound, and his eyes shot open. "You can make noise, you know. I like when you scream." His voice was dark with desire, just slightly out of breath, and it was one of the most arousing things she had ever heard. When she moaned next, it was free of inhibition, and his name dropped from her mouth like a prayer.

"Aaron, please," She groaned as he changed their gentle rocking into desperate thrusting, bucking so as to drive his member deeper into her core. His fingers clumsily found the bud above where they were joined and he pulled and teased until her walls tightened and her downward movements became jerky and uncoordinated. He loved how overwhelmed her orgasm left her, unable to move from the pleasure. "Open your eyes, love." He told her, and she did, her blue orbs nearly overtaken by her pupils. He continued thrusting, allowing her to ride her orgasm until, with a final cry and clenching of her walls, he followed.

She lay atop him, her legs spread over his torso as she gasped, kissing his skin in the firelight and proclaiming her love for him. He pulled the covers off the nearby bed and arranged it around them. As she continued pulling his skin between her teeth the way he'd taught her, he groaned, his member hardening inside her.

Aunt Mary Margaret knew exactly (well perhaps not exactly, but she knew the general gist of things) what was going on and, and as she and James had had a rather unorthodox courtship, didn't say much about it. They were safe to lay there atop each other in the night, safe to play at husband and wife until neither one could move. He was tucking a stray curl behind the shell of her ear, moving gently and relishing in her sweet mewls, thanking God for giving him this beautiful woman.

But then the sirens sounded.

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**For Iambicdearie, who's been having a bad week. Also for me, and my unhealthy obsession with the Holocaust. Speaking of which, if you want to have a clue about how angry Holocaust denial makes me, you might want to take a look at Regina Spektor's _Inkstains. _Actually, Regi's angrier about it than I am, but the song expresses the sentiment I'm trying to convey here. This chapter was written while Ingrid Michaelson's _Are we There Yet_ was on loop, as is made very obvious by some of my diction. **

**I hope to get the next chapter up before I leave for Sao Paulo on Sunday. I'll be exploring Foz Do Iguacu until then, so I don't know if all that will be possible, but I will definitely try.**

**Tchau! Feedback is always appreciated.**


	2. Chapter 2

For the Dead and the Living, We Must bear Witness

Chapter Two

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She scrambled off of him, throwing on her skirt and her shirt and her shoes. Despite their nearness to the fire, the room was suddenly cold; flickering light that had been romantic and beautiful now turned Belle's thoughts to her beloved Paris in flames. Her pantyhose were ignored, as were so many articles of clothing. Belle needed desperately to get out of there. It was not that she did not want to wait for him, but… she remembered the invasion of Paris all too well.

"Allons-y, Aaron." She tremblingly pushed his shirt at him, visibly flinching when the sounds of explosions could be heard over the sirens. His shuffling movements were too slow, he was going to get caught and… and… he grasped her hand and pulled her through the house to the back where the bomb shelter lay in wait.

Aunt Mary was motioning them inside, wringing her hands. "Did you see James? He said he would bring Emma. Did you see the baby?" She didn't note their disheveled appearance. Gold shook his head in apology, leading a murmuring and barely coherent Belle to the top bunk. They lay spooned against each other, and Belle was shaking violently.

"Sha, Belle, sha. It will be fine; sha." He smoothed her hair and breathed a sigh of relief as his host barreled into the shelter, holding a squalling four month old in his arms.

Belle lost herself whenever she heard the air raids. She knew, logically, that this was not Paris, but her swiftly–beating heart and her inability to breathe were all too present, all too real. She would become frozen in terror, and so it was best that she not be alone when these raids began. The last time she'd been alone during such a raid (sometime in the middle of the night when it had first started, two weeks back), they had all waited in the bunker for her to arrive. She never had. They'd searched frantically, Gold especially, and her uncle had found her in the corner of the kitchen, which was as far as she'd gotten before the bombs started, wild-eyed and muttering in French.

Since then, Gold and Belle had slept in the same bed, and neither Mary Margaret nor James had said a word about it.

He wanted her to feel safe here with him, but if he were to be honest, her fear grounded him. It did not give him space to be afraid; it was the one time he could be strong for her instead of the other way around. When the bombs started, she needed him to hold her and be brave for her. Belle was the bravest person he'd ever known, even in her fear, and she made him brave for her, even if it was just stroking her hair and whispering sweet soothing nothings in German as though they had not been making love moments before.

That is not to say he liked when she was afraid and reduced to a frightened creature, flinching with every boom and shedding silent tears at the vibrations. He hated to see her like this. But he was glad that in spite of everything, his cowardice and his own fears, he could comfort her instead of being consumed by the darkness, stroking her brown curls in the shadows.

The first time he'd met her, she'd been all sunshine and smiles. He'd thought she was naïve, knowing nothing of pain, and he couldn't have been more mistaken. For she was a bright thing, willing to offer aid and comfort when it was needed, and he was angry and bitter. What could this sheltered and loved child know of war and pain? How could she possibly understand all that had happened in the world?

He had told her that on their second meeting, whereupon she slapped him across the face and told him he had no idea what he was saying. She called him selfish, and she called him a coward, and then she spun away to a corner of the house. So he began searching for her story. There had to be one, and he swore he would find it before the month's end. And he had; the first of the air raids had seen to that. It was after such an air raid (she'd been so frightened) that he found her drinking Pinot Noir from her one of her aunt's chalices.

He'd known she was French, but he hadn't known she was Parisian, hadn't known she'd been trapped in the city and only by God's grace had made it out with nary a scratch. If he had, he would have seen what her smiles hid. And while Belle had made it, her mother had been lost among the wreckage and her father had thrown himself into La Résistance to hide from his grief. He was back now, living elsewhere and mourning the loss of his arm and his wife, but Belle had been abandoned by him when she needed him most. It would be some time before she could find it in herself to forgive her dear papa.

Belle's mantra was that sometimes, one needed to do the brave thing to spite the fear. So she had been kind to the old bastard, had engaged him in conversation, had been a breath of fresh air amidst the cynicism and growing despair. He had spit in her face.

She was so drunk she couldn't stand straight, could barely sit straight. Her slurred English gave way to slurred French, and without any prompting on his part she told him "You're a bastard, Mr. Gold." It was the most accented her English had ever been.

"Is that so, dearie? And why do you say that?"

"Because you make the assumptions about people you don't even know." She dipped her head at the end, pouting and looking down. "And I'll have you know I am not a sheltered naïve child. I am a grown woman. And I saw Paris burn." Her eyes turned dark. "And my maman burnt with it. So do not call me naïve, you stupid man. You do not know what I had to do to get out of there, and I very much hate you."

"Tell me."

So she did. She'd even told him how how she'd bribed the guards, losing her virginity and saving her own life in the process. At the end of it all, she renewed her claims of his illegitimacy. Then she had collapsed, her small hand grasping the bottle tightly as her body slumped forward.

He poked her.

She didn't stir. She had downed one bottle and was halfway through another, mein Gott! of course the silly girl had passed out. He couldn't move her, not without straining his leg, and so he had called the girl the Charmonts employed.

"Ella, be a dear, and take the fräulein upstairs."

"All by meself, sir?"

"I obviously won't be much help, child." He gestured to his cane and the girl made an effort not to roll her eyes.

Gold sighed at the memory, fisting his hand over one of her damp curls. "It's over, Liebling. It's done. Come on, let's get down." Her fingers clenched in his shirt, stillwrinkled from their previous activities.

Emma had stopped crying, and that was a relief. The child had a pair of lungs that could power a steam engine, and in the metal room, it echoed. Mary Margaret looked so weary; the poor woman hadn't slept since her baby (beloved and spoiled and Mary had found fabric to tie a bow on her bald head) had been born.

Belle was clutching his hand tightly as they staggered back to the house. By the time they made it to their bedroom (it was his, and it smelled like him and felt safe and warm, and her room wasn't a room made for a girl-turned-woman. _This_ was her room, now) she was calm enough to slip into a nightgown and brush her hair. When she joined him in the bed, he held her tight and called her his Schatzi, his treasure, kissed her tears away and told her it was alright to cry.

It was a tragedy, she thought absudly as she drifted into sleep, that they hadn't been able to tell Aunt Mary and Uncle James the good news.

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**Updated this one before What Loyalties Remain and The Little Naiad because Strag's birthday ended five hours ago (officially). So... a happy belated birthday to her. I will go back to updating as scheduled, and there will be another chapter for this story after Naiad. Consider this a bonus, and not a switching up of the schedule. **

**Reviews would be nice. :D Feedback always is.**


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